Does A Body Good
by paigery
Summary: It’s been months since the cure and Henry has decided to move back into the Institute while serving as Ambassador. Unfortunately, one mysterious murder leads to the next and he ends up standing on the last doorstep he’d expect. Beast/OFC


Title: True Blue

Title: Does a Body Good

Rating: 14A (Canadian)

Part: one

Pairing(s): Beast/OC

Warnings: slight AV, movie-verse, angst, violence, language, and XAVIER ISN'T DEAD

Disclaimer: X-men does not belong to me; giving credit to the creator Stan Lee, yada, yada, yada. Anywho, this is my first x-men fic so please don't be _too_ mean if the characters are a little off at first.

Summary: It's been months since the cure and Henry has decided to move back into the Institute while serving as Ambassador. Unfortunately, one mysterious murder leads to the next and he ends up standing on the last doorstep he'd expect.

Chapter one: Mulling Over Morning Coffee

'_Last night, the body of democratic senator, David Hewley was found dead in his own private study. Apparent cause of death were multiple stabbings through the chest. Tangible evidence has not yet been found at the scene. Crime Scene Investigators are still working to find a suspect._

_We'll be back after this short break with an invaluable interview from Hewley's wife.'—_

Henry McCoy heaved a sigh, staring down his nose at the unsuspecting cup of coffee. He eyed the black liquid, half-expecting a tiny, triangular plastic die would float to the surface with 'ask again later' etched into one of its stark, little facets. The green, generic mug was not to be mistaken for any magic eight-ball though because shaking would only resolve in scolding hot liquid splattered across the kitchen counter.

Somehow, Hank already knew this was a mutant at work. It must have been that little prickle, slipping her tenuous, cold fingers between his shoulders and cradling the back of his skull in her palm. His fur bristled and the coffee mug was drawn away from his mouth once more. The good doctor turned on his heels; morning beverage discarded on the counter.

Somewhere between the time it took to stride down the main corridor to the lower chambers of the mansion where laid Cerebro, Hank felt something tugging—no, lurching in the back of his consciousness. Was it all just an overwhelming sense of intuition or his body and mind already responding to something he had yet to encounter? A terse headshake dispelled the urging sensation just as the thick, impenetrable jaws to Cerebro gaped open.

Professor Charles Xavier wheeled himself from the darkened room, advancing towards the good doctor with a morbid sort of expression plastered to his face; his brow knit and dark eyes starring at the smooth, tiles floors.

"Charles—"

"It's alright Henry. I'm well aware of the situation." The professor assured. Hank nodded, turning back towards the elevator that was coincidentally placed at the other end of the extended, underground corridor. "And I'm afraid my previous assumptions were correct."

"A mutant?" Charles nodded, steering himself alongside the burly doctor. He fitted his chin into one hand perched at the elbow against his chair, adopting a much graver presence.

"Yes, a class four." Hank nodded, scratching behind his left ear.

"But why?"

"Recall, Dr. McCoy--Hewley was one of the biggest supporters in the anti-mutant registration. He was on the board for approval of the Sentinel enactment."

"But to _kill_ him? The only other mutant I could ever expect such and act of resistance from would be… But he's long gone, is he not?" Henry reasoned with himself.

"I'm sorry to say that I have no better an understanding of the situation than you." Hank scoffed.

"Then we're both in trouble."

"There is someone who might supply a great deal more imperative knowledge…an old friend of yours." Henry raised an inquisitive eyebrow and Xavier's chair paused at the elevator door with a soft click. His dark blue eyes left the comforting familiarity of the lift and dared to meet an impeding, dark stare. There went that lurching again… "The man is one of two paternal twins," Charles supplied.

"_And I believe his name is James Isaac Wolfe."_

* * *

Thick, dark masses of clouds skimmed over the surface of the plane, obscuring anything more than five feet out the window. All that signified the end of each wing was a tiny, blinking light. Water condensed more and more, dragging thick droplets back from the thick, rounded glass. He was sure it was just rain now.

Henry wrung his left wrist, trying not to rip the damn image inducer off and scratch the hell out of his hand. He never wore a watch since fur was thrown in the picture. However, it was this or a few well-deserved stares from those kids sitting in front of him and the elder couple to his left. After all, who'd expect the ambassador of the UN to be making a quick flight all the way across the Atlantic? He blinked back at his reflection in the window, starring spitefully at what once was—short, dark hair, a squared jaw, and—dare he say it, dimples. Furrowing his brow, Henry reached over and pulled the shutter down over the glass a bit more forcefully than necessary.

He sighed, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. The air conditioning didn't seem to be working so he had long since removed his brown jacket and wadded it up as a pillow. The twelve-hour flight had only seemed excruciatingly long after he'd read three whole issues of Science Magazine and downed two cups of ice chips. The man next to him was fast asleep and with each shake of the plane, he slumped closer. Whoever was in charge of the two kids in front of him, who constantly squirmed to peek over the seats or squeal for more candy, finally managed to coax them into a sugar-crashed nap. Madison and Jamie—he learned their names earlier. Despite everything that would have him bored to tears, Hank managed one coherent point of focus…_her_.

Eyes closed and lulled by the steady motion of the plane, Hank unnoticeably slipped into a fitful slumber.

_Two hands. Who knew two little hands could make such a beautiful ensemble of music. Ten little fingers danced over a plain of white and black. The musician swayed, a complex mechanism of bone and flesh and sinew moving in one fluid movement. Entranced. That was the only word that came to mind when observing such an act of raw emotion. Thick, white-hot feelings coursed through those ten, tiny little fingers and left them hot and eager for the cool, unchanging comfort of each key. _

_He watched her create; watched her pour her body and mind onto the smooth, black surface. Every moment, every sin was laid out before the musician for him to inspect. Most of it was charred, scabbed over wounds and dark splintered doors fastened with rusty locks. There were bits of colored glass too. Small shards scattered over the blank surface, glinting in the light like little stars. They must be good._

_His interest was drawn; tangled. A small ball of twine weaved from odds and ends of different strings. It was a tightly wound thing, forged at the beginning in simple white but grew into much more brilliant colors as the story rolled on. He reached forward, eyes locked on the pianist. She was gone, distant to his presence unless it was shelled in slim, ivory white keys with obsidian sharps and flats. _

_His fingers itched now. What was this? Should he touch it, would she notice? Curiosity whispered sweet obscenities in his ear. He closed the space between the grand instrument and him, also closing his hand around the yarn. Something tugged. He looked down only to see another string. A loose thread on his shirt? No, this cord was attached, emerging from his chest and eventually melding with the small ball of yarn. It was almost silver, so stark and clean. He lifted it, experimentally tugging. Nothing happened. While his eyes followed back to the twine ball, he wondered. The scabs and burns were character, the doors were secrets, and the glass were little shimmers of good nature. This must be her life, wound tighter than a clock. He noticed more bits of thread hanging there all severed and frayed. Where did they once go? Who did they belong to? He turned the ball in one hand, feeling something strain against his sternum. He tugged the string harder this time. The ball jostled from his palm and tumbled to the floor before he could help it, rolling out into a spread of green and blue and copper. _

_The music stopped…two piercing gray eyes starred back at him from the endless expanse of polished, black wood. Her brow furrowed, something born of pain and worry consumed every contour of her expression._

'_Yea dropped it,' she said. Her voice was clear as a bell, cutting through the anxious air and soaking into four plain walls that held them._

'_I'm sorry,' he said, eyeing the unraveled ball at his feet. 'Here, let me get it. I didn't mean to drop—"_

'_No…' he doesn't reach for the little bits of thread, fearing it will just crumble in his big fingers. He dared to look up, frozen in a gaze of stormy gray. She opened her mouth to speak. 'Would you like some M&M's?'_

'_What?' his voice echoed, even in such a small, contained space. He leaned forward on the piano, her soul abandoned with the song. _

'_Do you like some M&M's?' she inquired._

"Do you? Hey mister, do you want some M&M's?"

The room, the piano, those eyes. They all vanish instantly and all that grew was the feeling of his stomach dropping into his feet and the plane rumbling. Hank blinked sleep from his eyes, starring ahead. A rounded, pudgy face starred right back at him with big, hazel eyes and dark freckles.

"Pardon?" his voice sounded rough and unused. He stretched his arms to the luggage compartment and winced at an audible pop from his right shoulder.

"M&M's…candy—you want some?" The child repeated, speech mangled by the rather lack thereof front teeth. Hank blinked again, running one hand through his thick hair and pulling the sleeve of his navy button-down to eye the time. Calculating the time zone change was hardly a problem until a small bag of chocolate candy was thrust in his face.

"Oh, yes, thank you Jamie." He smiled, opening a large hand as Jamie wriggled another arm between the seats and poured a majority of the bag into his waiting palm.

"Jamie!" Hank noticed a tall, lean woman standing in the isle with the young girl, Madison, gripping the leg of her green skirt. Wisps of russet hair fell over her tired eyes while she reached into the overhead cabin for their things. She handed said boy a fire truck red backpack. "Stop bothering other passengers and get your things," she ordered sternly with Madison still clutching her knees. Jamie muttered something of compliance as he shrugged his backpack over one shoulder and stuffed the rest of the plastic bag into his jeans pocket.

Henry popped one of the colorful candies into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. The space next to him was empty, the once sleeping executive had already gathered and wandered to the front of the plane. Hank derided himself for sleeping clean through the entire landing of his flight, using two stiff arms to haul himself upright. The doctor straightened one arm to the other side of his body, cringing inwardly. He wanted to spend more time stretching a many unyielding muscles gathering somewhere in his neck and shoulders but more of the passengers were filing down the isle. Hank folded his jacked over one arm and budged from the tight seating rather gracefully--despite his cumbersome frame.

Once off the loading ramp and back with two feet firmly planted on solid ground, Henry incontestably decided on a much-needed visit to the bathroom before hailing a cabby.

Disclaimer (again) constructive criticism makes my tummy smile :)


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